


Primero Movimiento

by nxymxrjr (KingPreussen)



Series: La Sinfonía [3]
Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Criminals, Blood and Injury, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Organized Crime, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:28:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7062583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingPreussen/pseuds/nxymxrjr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The bank was pretty full when he arrived. It was one of those modern ones that tended to look out of place in a city like Barcelona--all chrome and steel and wide windows. It let the sun in nicely, but that was the only part Neymar could say he liked.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>He pushed open one of the glass doors and peered around for the shortest line. There was a teller across the expansive marble floor who seemed to be getting everyone what they needed faster than all the rest, so Neymar stood in that line, smiling and waving at a baby who leaned around their parent to get a look at him.</i>
</p><div class="center">
  <p>---</p>
</div>Neymar meets Lio in one of the worst ways possible. Lio is enchanted.
            </blockquote>





	Primero Movimiento

**Author's Note:**

> hey thanks for everyone's patience
> 
> this is the real 'first part' of this series
> 
> i hope you all like it :) tell me what you think

"I'm pretty sure no one _goes_ to the bank anymore," Neymar said, adjusting his phone between his shoulder and cheek with one hand while the other was occupied with a sheaf of transfer papers. He was starving but he didn't have any breakfast food in his house and he didn't want to eat fideuà at eight in the morning. Rafinha being a little bitch wasn't helping. "I can't transfer this money online?" he whined.

" _Nope_ ," Rafinha sing-songed. Neymar could hear the smile in his voice and it pissed him off. " _It's overseas, and there's laws against that. I think_."

Neymar sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his forefinger and thumb like Rafinha was so fond of doing. "Fine. I'll call you when I get back."

" _Love you too, Ney_." Rafinha hung up first before Neymar could protest. Not that he wanted to, not _really_ , but he had an image to uphold. Even alone in his apartment.

Neymar tossed his phone down on his couch, watching it bounce back onto the floor. Lucky him he didn't understand half the information he was supposed to be putting on this transfer requests, so he had to go to the bank _twice_ to actually do them. It was worth it to send money to his parents, though; they weren't poor but they weren't well off, either, and he was happy to give them his extra funds.

The problem was, they lived in Brazil, and so this whole clusterfuck. Neymar was considering just flying back home to give them the money next time. Barcelona wasn't really all that far from Brazil, if you considered the entire circumference of the Earth.

He sighed and ran a hand over his hair. It would be better to just go instead of overthinking it. He had kind of a bad feeling about leaving his apartment, but that was probably just his aversion to doing anything of substance on a day he was supposed to be off from work. 

Keys, wallet, phone (thankfully with no cracks), and transfer papers in hand, Neymar locked up his apartment. He ran down two flights of stairs until he was out on the open, sunny street. It was easier to walk to the bank then take a taxi, so that's what he did without complaint. The weather wasn't too hot or too humid and while his job at the local café wasn't exactly sedentary, he hadn't been keeping up with his running schedule at all and he felt sluggish.

The bank was pretty full when he arrived. It was one of those modern ones that tended to look out of place in a city like Barcelona--all chrome and steel and wide windows. It let the sun in nicely, but that was the only part Neymar could say he liked. _And_ he would have to wait for a teller because of the hellish crowd.

He pushed open one of the glass doors and peered around for the shortest line. There was a teller across the expansive marble floor who seemed to be getting everyone what they needed faster than all the rest, so Neymar stood in that line, smiling and waving at a baby who leaned around their parent to get a look at him.

Five minutes into scrolling his phone, having moved up almost ten places, someone behind him screamed. He exhaled slowly before turning his head to see what was wrong. It was probably someone who forgot their wallet or dropped their coffee and had a flair for the dramatic.

Three people, one of whom was holding an assault rifle, the other two with smaller pistols, were standing in the doorway of the bank.

 _This is what I get for coming here in the first place_ , Neymar thought hysterically.

"Everyone, get on the fucking ground!" One of them shouted. They were all wearing ski masks ( _kind of cliché, right_? Neymar's brain provided before he mentally shushed himself) and completely black outfits, which were kind of obvious looking in broad daylight. Neymar knew he wasn't the authority on hostage situations, or crime in general, but he figured blending in was at least recommended.

A shot rang out, breaking everyone out of their stupor; almost as one they dropped to the floor, some people covering their heads with their arms. _Won't stop a bullet_ , Neymar thought. He wasn't sure why his brain was being so unhelpful. It was probably shock.

One of the pistol-wielding men started to walk forward, down the line of cowering people. His feet stopped in front of Neymar and the Brazilian thumped his head against the floor. Of course it would be him.

"You," the man said, kicking Neymar in his side before pressing the muzzle of the gun into the back of Neymar's head. "Get up."

"I thought I was supposed to get on the ground," Neymar said through gritted teeth. It was like his brain _wanted_ him to die. His mother always told him his smart mouth would get him in more trouble than it got him out of.

Sure enough, the rounded end of the gun lifted from the back of his head and the sharp edge smacked him right in the temple, sending him sprawling. More people screamed then but the sound was muffled to his ringing ears. The pain didn't even register until he attempted to sit up, and then he felt more nauseous than he ever had, even more than that one time he got food poisoning.

Neymar was sure one of his last regrets would be not telling Rafinha that he loved him.

He opened his eyes as much as he could, blinking rapidly to try and clear the hot, fast flowing blood from them. The man was standing over him again, pistol pointing directly at his head. "You're an idiot, you know that?" he asked rhetorically.

Thankfully the pain in his head prevented Neymar from nodding. That would definitely get him shot. He tried to stand up but he could barely see, much less control his arms and legs. The man grabbed him by the collar and pulled him upward, sending spots and flashes up behind Neymar's eyes, and set him more or less on his feet.

There was another shot that rattled the glass and shattered marble and Neymar winced. He could only hope that no one would die today--no one other than him. He held back the urge to vomit, aided by the fact he hadn't eaten since the night before, and awaited whatever the man had planned for him.

Neymar was thrown forward toward the tellers, who were already shoving money in bags. "Get those and search them for dye," the masked man said. Neymar stumbled--the blood from his forehead was beginning to drip over his mouth and chin, spotting the floor and increasing his nausea--but made a valiant effort to reach the desks and do as he was told.

The sound of three more shots broke his concentration and he couldn't keep himself upright anymore. He dropped jarringly back to the ground and bit into his lip, whimpering in pain. He couldn't tell what blood was fresh from his mouth and what was dripping from his forehead, but at this point it didn't matter.

"Idiots," a new voice said in the silence. If Neymar could have looked up, he wouldn't anyway.

More steps toward him, these clipped and sharp and purposeful rather than the lazy way his attacker walked. Neymar shivered and curled up as best he could on the unforgiving floor, his bruised ribs making themselves painfully known. He knew if he were kicked there again they would break, and he might puncture a lung and die even more painfully than he already was.

The steps stopped, fabric rustled, and light fingers touched his unbloodied cheek rather than cold metal. "Are you alright?" the voice asked. When he didn't answer, the fingers swept over his jaw and turned his head toward the ceiling. Neymar's head swam and he took a shuddering, terrified breath.

A warm gush of blood dripped over his brow and onto the floor when he squeezed his eyes shut.

The voice murmured something that he couldn't make out. The man's other hand pushed his hair back gently, fingers probing the outside of his wound. "Please," Neymar found himself begging. In the face of violence he could fake confidence, but when his potential killer touched him softer than any lover he'd ever had, he was _scared_. "Please, make it quick, please, please."

The voice shushed him. "I'm not going to kill you, darling." Someone else kneeled near him as well, on his other side. In the background Neymar could hear people leaving the bank as quickly as they could and he was satisfied that he would be the only hostage. He could only hope the baby would be okay.

A cool, damp piece of cloth pressed up against his temple. Neymar hissed and tried to pull away out of reflex. "No," yet another voice said, this one deeper and more serious where the man with the soft fingers had a gentle voice to match. "Keep still."

The cloth wiped blood away from his eyes and he chanced a look at the two men above him through his eyelashes. One looked tall and strong, his eyes focused on Neymar's bloody face. He was dressed much like the three robbers, minus the ski mask; his clothes were much more fitted and looked almost tailor made, and he had a silvery gun in the holster at his hip.

The other had dark, dark hair and even darker eyes. Neymar felt like he was being read like a book through his stare, every secret he ever had bared to this man. He wasn't smiling, but he wasn't frowning either, his face set in a neutral mask. He was wearing a white button down and black slacks--the button down was splattered with blood in an impressive arc--sunglasses pushed up and into his hair. If not for his familiarity with this _other_ man, the taller one, Neymar would have thought he was just another person in line at the bank.

"I'm Lio," he said, a flicker of a smile playing over his lips and in his eyes. "What's your name?"

Neymar felt like his throat was full of glass but he attempted to answer. "N-Neymar," he replied after a few false starts.

"Hello Neymar." The soft fingers went to his unbloodied eye, pulling his eyelid up and, presumably, checking his pupil dilation. "Would you mind coming with us for a little while?"

It was getting hard to think. "Do I have a choice?" Neymar asked; his words were slurred so badly he wasn't sure the man--Lio--understood what he said at all.

Lio's smile smoothed back into detachment. Neymar was afraid he had said the wrong thing but he couldn't take it back now, especially at 25% brain function. Lio's dark eyes flickered up to the other man and he tilted his head just slightly.

"You likely have a concussion," the deeper-voiced man said. "All the hospital can do is tell you to stay awake for a few hours, sleep under supervision, and maybe give you some pain medication. And that's all we plan to do, minus the police questioning."

Neymar could see the merit of not dealing with questioning. It took a few seconds, but he managed to say, "That sounds illegal."

Lio breathed a laugh. "Neymar," he said again, as if he just liked the sound of it.

The cloth lifted and Lio's soft fingers pulled away at the same time. Without any support, Neymar couldn't stop his head from lolling back to the floor, but the serious man kept him from cracking it on the hard tile. There was blood pooling and spreading along the floor across from him, and he was almost sure it wasn't his.

He focused enough to make out a ski mask with a hole through the forehead, and _then_ he threw up.

* * *

He ended up being shuffled into the back of a black car with leather seats and the A/C on full blast. Lio sat next to him and the other man got into the driver's seat. They pulled away from the front of the bank just as the sound of police sirens reached Neymar's ears.

Lio buckled him in, leaning over him but not touching him directly. He sat with a lot of space between them like he didn't want to spook Neymar, but really he was in too much shock to be spooked. Lio seemed to notice his blank stare, because he leaned forward and said, "Geri, turn the heat on." He rifled through a bag on the floor of the car and pulled out a blanket that he dropped into Neymar's lap. "Use this."

Neymar shook his head slightly. He felt terrified again, like he had made a horrible mistake by leaving with these men, and if he wasn't bleeding out he would probably try to leave the car. 

"Neymar," Lio said. "Please put the blanket on. Shock isn't anything to play around with."

If he could get his hands to cooperate. Neymar picked at the soft fabric, just managing to spread it somewhat over his lap. The urge to sleep pulled at him but he was jolted out of it when Lio huffed and pulled the blanket up to his chin, tucking it behind his back. Neymar protested wordlessly but Lio just fixed him with a level look and he quieted again.

"Talk to me." Lio leaned against the door, folding one leg over the other.

As if. It was getting hard to breathe, Neymar's entire side burning from under his arm down to his hip. His vision flickered and when he could see again, Lio was, again, kneeling in front of him. He pulled the blanket down and Neymar's shirt up almost in the same movement. That terrified feeling came back but all Lio did was feel gently around the bruise Neymar knew was forming on his ribcage.

"This was from one of them?" Lio asked.

Neymar swallowed. "Yeah," he rasped, licking his lips.

"I can fix this later," Lio seemed to assure him. He reached back into his bag of secrets and pulled out a water bottle. He twisted the cap off and brought it to Neymar's mouth. "Drink just a little."

Neymar complied without hesitation this time. He actually felt thirst along with the pain in his head and in his side, which meant he was _very_ dehydrated. Lucky he was, because if he'd peed himself during that whole robbery debacle he might have dropped dead from embarrassment.

He laughed hysterically at his own thought, almost spilling water all over himself. Lio seemed to understand, because he pulled the bottle away and recapped it. Still on his knees, he readjusted Neymar's blanket and reached up to touch his cheeks again.

"That blood," Neymar forced out, eyes on Lio's shirt, "That's theirs, isn't it?"

Lio didn't smile, which comforted Neymar in an odd way. "It is." Lio looked down at himself, his mouth twisting into a frown. "I wish I knew which one had hurt you before I killed them."

Neymar swallowed again, taking shallow breaths to avoid aggravating his ribs. Lio was almost as scary as the men in the bank, to be talking about murder so easily, but again his light fingers on Neymar's face, now running across his hairline as if checking for more wounds, made Neymar want to keep him all to himself. "How did you find us?" he stammered, making Lio look into his eyes again.

"I have my ways." Lio tilted his head just slightly, shifting his knees below him. "Why haven't I seen you before?"

"You can't know everyone in Barcelona," Neymar replied.

Lio smirked and Neymar's heart skipped a beat. "Yes, I can." Lio dropped his hands to Neymar's knees. "I think I'd remember a pretty face like yours."

If Neymar had any blood left he'd have blushed. "I-I'm new, I guess? I only got here... two months ago?"

"And where do you work?"

"Can I have some more water?" Neymar deflected, running his tongue over the split in his lower lip. Lio looked levelly at him, like he knew exactly what Neymar was trying to do, but he uncapped the water again and helped Neymar drink it.

When he had his fill, Neymar tilted his head back and Lio set the bottle aside. "W-Where do _you_ work?" he asked before Lio could say anything.

"Here and there." Geri laughed from the driver's seat and Neymar started, having forgotten he was there. "Shut up, Gerard."

"Yeah, okay," Geri--Gerard... Geri?--replied. Neymar figured he wasn't Lio's henchman or anything, because he was still snickering audibly and Lio rolled his eyes instead of reprimanding him. 

Lio turned back to Neymar, squeezing his knees in a friendly way. "I just do some freelance work. I assume you have a more stable job?"

 _In for a penny, in for a pound_ , Neymar thought. He was already in the guy's car, being driven to who-knew-where, head pounding and hairstyle entirely fucked, he might as well spill his life story too. "I work at a cafe," he said frankly. "I guess it's stable. I don't really have any plans to leave."

Lio nodded seriously. "You're quite thin. Are you eating enough?"

"Are you my mother?" Neymar mumbled under his breath. Lio smiled at him again and, through the haze of pain, Neymar found it in himself to smile back.


End file.
